


A Small Comfort

by wyrd_eater



Series: The Sartre Estate [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gore, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual References, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrd_eater/pseuds/wyrd_eater
Summary: Dismas is thirsty and the tavern is closed. What's an old rogue to do?
Relationships: Crusader/Highwayman (Darkest Dungeon), Dismas/Reynauld (one-sided)
Series: The Sartre Estate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939003
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	A Small Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this when my Dismas became afflicted and was unable to get stress relief due to his Tippler trait + the bar closing for a week. Poor thing.

Miserable fucking place.

Mud, blasted mud. Everywhere. It's been raining for bloody days. Bones are too old to take damp like this. Can't hardly see through the rain. Muffler barely helps. Smells like an east-end whore's cunt. I'd rather drown in this rain than keep my nose shoved in its stinking creases.

_CRRRACCCCKKK!_

_GETDOWNGETDOWNGETDOWN_

Face full of mud. Knees had given out. I grunt like an irritated hog, pull my yellow-bellied feet below me. Muffler is more mud than cloth now. I'd choke on sludge if I tried to use it now. I yank it down, growl at the storm. It was thunder, you daft old fool. What kind of man are you? Quivering like a babe at a cloud's grumble. That kind of pigeon-hearted ducking will get you killed down there. Get someone else killed. Like…

What was her name? She had brown eyes, soft and filmy like a newborn puppy's. Right temple splattered with blood. Silky black hair matted by dirt. It's only been two days.Why can't I remember-

_FLASH_

_FUCK!_

Didn't fall that time. It was close, though. Gotta get back before I soil myself and lose my last bit of pride. Slog, shluck, slog, shluck, slog. Light up ahead, swinging back and forth in the wind. The barracks. Thank... Well... I don't want to jinx things.

A shove and a _creeeeaaaakkkk_! Wind comes in hard behind me, howling, nearly tumbles me head over heels across the threshold. Hard rain drives in after.

“What in the name of-"

"Dismas?!"

"BY THE LIGHT, SHUT THAT BLOODY DOOR!"

It's a hard won fight, but I get it shut. I lash it closed, bar it for good measure. Squelch, squelch, squelch over to the fire. The nun, the bird, and the thief stare at me from their seats in front of the hearth. The others must be lurking in their rooms. I throw myself onto the floor in front of the hearth with a wet slap.

“Tavern's closed."

"You don't say?" says the bird.

"That's were you've been?! You went out into _that_ to see if a drinking hall was serving?" Ah, that could only be the nun.

I peel off my greatcoat, toss it aside, huddle closer. I shuck off my gloves, then my sodden boots and socks. I push them close to the fire. Stale steam curls away. I cup the warmth, a shiver starting from somewhere deep, deep down. I sniff to clear the stink from my nose and can't get a full breath into my chest. It would be just my luck to come down with influenza after all this. 

"A man needs a drink to soothe his mind in a place like this." I look to my left without turning my head or moving my eyes. The thief is darning a shirt, nary a look to be spared in my direction. I bite down hard. My teeth ache. It keeps my jaw from shaking. Flame's blasted fire, this shiver is going to rattle me to pieces.

"You would risk your life-"

"If I wanted to be beat about I'd go to the penance hall." I say it quick and mean, meaner than I meant. The nun means well. She's got a good heart underneath all that holier-than-thou armor. Courtesy aside, I shouldn't be yapping at the woman who guards the gate between me and the long sleep. At least it shuts her up, though. 

Still not looking at him, I say: "Be a kind soul and pass me that blanket behind you, Reynauld."

The thief sets his thread and needle down just so, as prim and proper as any noble lady, before flinging the blanket at me with the full might of his sword arm. It nearly bowls me over. I wrap it tight around my shoulders. It smells of mold and moth droppings.

"Thank you, my friend." 

He returns to his needlework. My guilt hangs heavy between us. Silence, then, save for the happy crackling of the fire. 

"I'm surprised you don't have a stash here,” says the bird. Her reedy voice wiggles like her darling leeches.

"It'd be easier to sneak a bone away from a starving dog than slip out of that bar with a bottle."

"I thought you were a master thief. Have your senses greyed with your hair, Master Fox?"

"Haven't stolen anything since I signed the contract. Don't need to anymore. Only a beast steals for more than necessity."

The thief's steady needle stumbles. He pulls out a bit of stitching, begins again. Good. I hope guilt crawls under your skin and eats that noble heart whole. See how it feels. Light, how he’d screamed at me after she had gone down… Nearly shouted himself sore. I squeeze my eyes shut, force the memory away, and open them again.

"I wouldn't blame you if you did. That Lord doesn't pay us nearly enough," the bird grumbles. All of us have said the exact same thing at some point, in-between nursing wounds and huddling around fires and cutting down abominations. A mutter of agreement rolls through us. None of us ever reply with the obvious. There's no price for the hell we trudge through. Not in gold, not in land, not in fame. The only balm is the soft soil of the grave.

"Goodnight all," says the nun, her tone taut. The couch squeaks behind me. I hold my tongue between my teeth. I fear that my words will tremble if I speak.

"A restful night to you, Sister. Light be with you," says the the thief.

"And with you."

"Hold a moment. I'll retire with you," says the bird.

Their footsteps fade away, up the moldy carpeted stairs, and out of earshot. The thief and I have nothing to say to each other. Not after the shameful pageantry that had gone on in those stinking tunnels.

Between the fire’s popping, the old hotel cries and howls as it weathers the storm. My mind creeps up slow on me, whispers of hoof steps in the hall, rusted hooks tapping at the windows, and muted snorts in the shadows. Prickles crawl up and down my back. My shoulders hug my ears. The cold has soaked through my hands. They tremble wildly. I grasp at my knees. How long until those blasted ruins spill over? How long until those bones tumble through the hamlet? The tide, the cult, the pig-men! Unstoppable! We are too few and they are so, so many. Endless, endless, gushing blood thick enough to soak through my duster, lap at my ankles, rotten hands from the muck dragging me down, down, down...

Can't stand this. Can't fucking stand this. I need a _drink_ any drink. Doesn't matter what it is as long as it's stout enough to drown out the fear.

I stand up so fast I surprise my body. It staggers, but rights itself. His staring makes my skin crawl. Feel like a dead cat cornered by a street urchin. I bolt for the kitchen.

Cook's not here. Good. Light knows I don't need any more witnesses to my shame. I rustle through the cabinets. Sacks of meal, sacks of potatoes, sacks of onions, tubs of lard. No, no, no, no, no... aha! A dusty bottle of vermouth, pushed all the to the back of a lower cabinet. A clever hiding place, little one, but not clever enough for a thirsty hound like me. I hide in the darkened corner by the door, that'll do, somewhere private to drown myself. I grab its slender neck and pop its head off. Stings just smelling it. Perfect. Just a few nips to get my mind calmed, then back to the fire.

The first sip tastes of rotten fruit. It burns as it slides down. I greedily suck down more, desperate for the unthinking warmth that follows. I lower the bottle, rest my upper lip against its neck, breathing heavily against the cool glass. My empty bowels grumble, threatening mutiny if such reckless abuse continues. I wait for the worse of it to pass, then force down more. I chuckle at my bare feet. What a sight... Little better than the screaming beggars back in Houndstead. Yes... There's that numbing bliss. With every swallow, the last expedition fades a little further. Dead bodies become blurred stone and screams become mindless chatter. Not enough. I can still feel the cold and the damp nipping at my ears and fingers. More, more more, more, more, more! I gag, force back the vermouth that had threatened to escape, and lean back against the wall. The ceiling bucks and shakes, as though a thousand painted ladies danced just above. The bottle finds its way home. Just a little more, little more... Until the hair on my... no, the pig's... No! The wolf’s hair! Enough to strip the wolf’s hair from its bloody back! Remember little Louisa? Didn’t she have the prettiest hair in the square? Aye, all braided and clean, trailing behind her while she ran. And me, even younger and shorter than her, with my dirty hands always chasing after... trying to touch just one... What for? Don't know what I'd do with them if I had gotten ahold of one. Even with Margaret, I didn't know... Didn't know what would be waiting for me behind that door. She was beautiful, and me, all stiff and put together wrong wrong... Ah, but those hands... Didn't matter as long as I could feel those hands, and believe... I just wanted to believe... Oh, Maggie! So beautiful, tangled up in those sheets with that wet red smile... So much red and wet I almost couldn't believe it all came from you. Crying into the crook of my elbow, even though I don't deserve it. Forgive me, Maggie! 

"Dismas."

Thief. Bloody thief skulking around like a rat.

"Had you been sober, I might have taken offense to that.”

"Did I say that?" I can't see him. He's all lights and shadows and dripping tears.

"How much of that have you had?" A hand reaches for my nearly empty bottle. I snarl at him and twist my body away. The wall betrays me, I fall on my side, clutching the bottle to my chest. Up and down and up and down, round and round, all fall down! 

"Give it here. You've had enough."

I am robbed by the thief. I haul myself up and throw my hands out for it. It dances away in the arms of my torturer. "You bloody... Bashtard! Son o'va mangy bitch." I can barely hear myself speak. When did he get so tall?

"Up with you." His hand clutches my elbow. My body leaves the floor before my head does. I teeter with a loose laugh. Shoulder thuds against his chest, my damp hair against his cheek.

"Don't get fresh wi' me, Sir! No way t' treat a lady!" I laugh again and push at him, somehow managing to push myself instead. I reel back. He catches me once more with a harsh pull, shifts away, and I go stumbling after him.

“You’re going to bed."

I dig in my heels. The thief scowls at me. I leer at his scarred, bearded face. "Gimme it back."

"No."

"Gimme it!" I swing for it. He pulls back. I close my eyes and prepare for an abrupt meeting with the floor. His arm swings beneath my chest and forces me upright. I teeter about, wiping at my face. It itches with dried tears. "Stoppit!"

“ _You_ stop _your_ yelling. You'll wake everyone in the barracks up."

"Yellin'?! I'll show _you_ yellin'!"

The stairs quickly approach. My feet are a thousand leagues away and will not listen to me, the bastards. The thief hauls me up them, a hand under my armpit and the other curled tight around my bicep. Stumble, stagger, thud and clank... The carpet then the wall then the ceiling... Can't keep my head on straight. 

" _Fill th' goblet again, for I n'ver afore felt the glow...!_ " Stomach lurches. I gag, lean hard into the thief. The night is for thieving and songs are for singing... Or is it 'ale for the drinking'?

"Be quiet."

"'Scuse me. Tha'... _Tha' now gladdens my hear' to its core!_ " So many doors. How many were there before?

"For Light's sake, stop that infernal singing!"

" _Lettus drink! Who could not?! Since through life_... um... _In th' goblet no decheption_ \- HRK!" The inside of a sweaty elbow shoves against my mouth. Bastard! Rotten dishonorable thief! 

I bite hard on the thief's arm. A little groan sounds from just above me. I get an elbow in the side for my efforts, then a furious shove into our shared room. I bunch his shirt beneath my hands, cry victory as the thief rolls with me onto the bed. It squeals as we land. The rain is deafening against the window pane. Rolling onto the bed makes my sore back sing. Spiderwebs swoop from beam to beam. 

His face is across from mine. Just the edge of his cheek, his ear, his hair, his beard. The smell of his breath and the bittersweet tang of lye soap. I laugh at him, at his shock, as he tears my hands away and rises to close the door.

I roll over onto my back - _crack_ go the old bones - and lift my head to glare at him. "I'll slit your dirty throat."

"Aye." With a huff, he hauls my legs up onto the bed to join my torso. I slap at his head, but my fingers meet nothing but hair. He yanks the blanket down. I couldn’t wiggle under it if I wanted to.

"I'm not foolin' wit' you." I'm trying to fix him with a glare, but my face is loose. The look slips right off.

He jabs me and I roll onto my side. 

"I'll have your ears for... for rings! Ha!"

"And my guts for garters?" He’s across the room now. He unlashes the curtains and tugs them closed before removing his trousers. As modest as ever!

"Heh... Weasel like you prob'ly doesn't ev'n _have_ guts!"

"I suppose you'll have to take my word for it, then."

He pulls his shirt over his head with a quiet wince. It pierces through me, surer and deadlier than any brigand's dagger. There's a nasty gash running from hip to rib, deep if memory serves correctly. The bandages covering it are a sickly pinkish-brown, the world's ugliest flower. He'd barely let out a squeak while the bird sowed it closed, though his grip on my hand had nearly broken it... The sight of it is almost enough to sober me up.

"Sorry," I mumble. If I hadn't've fled from the surge...

"What are you apologizing for?"

"That..." I nod vaguely towards him. "Nasty bit o' business..."

"I've had worse." He folds his shirt and trousers into each other, twisting them down to the size of his forearm. It's mesmerizing, the ease with which he does it. Easy as breathing.

"Still... I wish I-"

"Go to sleep." He places them in a pack at the foot of the bed. He could've unpacked months ago - has it really been that long? - but he seems to prefer living out of it. Can't say I blame him... Must feel nice, believing the lie that any of us could just get up and leave any time we wish.

"But-"

"If you won't go to sleep, at least be quiet." He sits down on the edge of his bed, his back to me. His words are brisk and harsh, enough to quiet loose lips.

My legs and arms must weight a thousand pounds. It's hard to blink, let alone shift into a more comfortable position on the bed. The light through the curtain makes him formless, lifeless, a dead gargoyle slumped in a dusty old room. Faint murmuring reaches me. Praying... I shut my eyes and think about candles in cathedrals and incense smoke curling up to ceilings and bells ringing to the morning. Nuns with moon faces and priests with shaky hands. Streaks of color flitting over bowed heads. Holey shoes scraping over stone floors, back and forth and back and forth. Chatter of hooves and boots and hawkers and pickpockets and constables, muffled and distant. Bright lights on shiny dresses, whirling and flicking beauty over the audience. Painted ladies and wooden sets and the closeness of a crowded room. Robes of silk, sweet wine, and dead roses on the nightstand. Sweet, stale breath at my ear, her hands at my shoulders and back, her thighs around my hips. Shrill laughter down the hall, her face like a painted mask. Cracks in the surface, red gushing through, covering sheets and hands and clothes and hair. Shrieking, shrieking, shrieking, scrape of nails down my back and scalp, smell of death in my nostrils, sobbing at the door. Pigs swarming out of holes in the floor, tearing apart a brown-eyed lamb with the face of a girl. She screams and cries and tries to pull her guts back into her, but they are too quick for her rough hands. She calls out my name as I run from her down halls of beating flesh, rubbed raw and sick. Pounding, pounding, pounding, louder and louder, as it gorges on us, on everything. Bone-tipped hands cup my face, grinning madness, a tongue made of stripped sinews. I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this. I will be greatly rewarded. I am made lover and son and sacrifice to this pulsating nothingness at the end of all things, ribcage folding inward, heart blossoming outwards, inverted and defiled at the feet of my inverter and defiler. 

_There will always be a place for you here, my child._

Sickness burbles out of my mouth and over the sheets. I'm trembling, sweat soaked through my clothes, no control of my limbs. I'm crying - blubbering, really - random fragments of words escaping me. I clamp my hands firmly over my mouth. It gives my shame a pathetic, animal-like quality. Better than waking him. The shadows twist with faces, limbs, wicked smiles, sobbing women, dead children... I close my eyes, but the view isn't much better. Twisting guts, bits of broken bone, punctured eyes, bloody sockets where teeth should be. My head is pounding! My chest will cave in! I roll and heave over the side of the bed, managing a slow trickle of sick that racks my bowels. 

A hand on my shoulder. My dagger at its throat!

"Dismas!"

The tip of my blade is trembling at its pulse point. I squint as the gory flesh-beast gives way to the side of a strong nose, the outline of a cheekbone, the edge of an overgrown beard. I look to the unarmed hands, raised in defense. The voice had been unmistakable... Embarrassment hits me with the force of a swift punch to the gut. I drop my blade, unable to even sheath it in my sorry state. I'm kneeling on the bed, no memory of how I'd gotten there other than a hysterical whirling.

I chuckle. It sounds like a death rattle. "Did I nick you?" I can barely understand myself through my sobs and uneven gasping. "I'm sorry…” I choke on a wail. “I’m s-sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Over and over and over again, forced out of me, my throat aching. I had more dignity as a child, when I would wipe my eyes on my mother's skirts. I curl over myself, unable to face him. The bed creaks, the mattress dips.

Hands as weathered as my own cup mine. He lifts them between us. I shake my head, guessing what is coming. I'm not worth it, don't bother with me, leave the old fox to die by the side of the road, I want to say, but I can't get any words out around the rock in my throat and the boulder on my chest. Smooth beads glide underneath my fingers. The four points of his Circle of Light press against my palm. It's warm, worn, well-used. He leans his head forwards, rests it gently against mine. 

"Count the beads as I pray," he says, his breath against my nose. My own must reek of vomit. "Empty your mind. Focus on my words."

"O Light, guide us in this hour of darkness. Shine Your divine glory upon this treacherous path we walk."

I shut my eyes. Gunpowder flash. My thumb rolls over the first bead. 

_ One.  _

Shrieking swine. 

_ Two.  _

Right between the eyes. I tear my lower lip with my teeth to keep hysterical laughter from burbling up. Useless, utterly useless.

"Show us the way, so that we may seek You. Banish the fear from our minds, for that is the tool of the Darkness." 

_ Three.  _

His voice is slow and steady, rising and falling like the rain outside. Steaming entrails in a heap.

_ Four.  _

My blubbering is not so loud now, the despair has contented itself somewhat. Puddle of blood. 

_ Five.  _

Tears and snot soak my face. I suck down a heavy breath as the weight on my chest shifts.

"Show us the way to Your perfect brilliance. We call upon You for clarity in this time of absolute despair."

His thumb is brushing back and forth over the top of mine. So gentle as to be barely felt. He smells of warmth. I shudder, gritting my teeth, at this state of absolute helplessness. At the gratitude I feel towards this crusader. At what he offers me, as though I am a beggar. I have never asked for this delicate handling, never will. Yet, it is freely given. The fear loosens its hold round my neck. Shame takes its place. I am pathetic. I am a shell of a man. I might as well cut out my heart and hand the naked thing to him. 

"Imbue us with the fearsome strength of Your wrath. Grant us the gentleness of Your mercy."

Shit, I've lost count. My thumb has moved on without me. I snort down a great swallow of snot. It hurts to breathe. Hurts to kneel. Hurts to feel his thumb over mine and know that we are already promised to the grave. Hurts to be.

"Bestow unto us a glimmer of Your perfect wisdom. Bless us with Your unyielding resolve, so that we may find hope amongst the endless suffering of this imperfect world. Amen."

"Amen," I rasp.

His hands leave mine. I release his rosary. He leans away, face still masked by shadow. Small mercies. To see his pity for me would crack me in half. I reach for my muffler, remember how filthy it is, and flick my hand back down. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hands and rub my nose over the shoulder of my shirt.

"Get up."

I shuffle off the bed. By some miracle, my legs manage to keep me upright. He strips the bed of its sheets in four quick motions, so quick that by the time I guilty jolt to help him, the lumpy mattress is already bare. He balls it up, places it at the foot of the bed. He removes the pillow and places it atop the soiled sheets.

"The mattress will be rough, but it's better than sleeping in vomit."

"I've slept in worse places, believe me," is what I say instead of thanking him. I undo my belt and throw it to the side. I clamber back onto the bed and stretch out my sore legs. "Didn't mean to make you play nursemaid to a washed-up brigand." I shuck off my shirt, ball it up tight, and place it at the head of the bed. Better than the scratch of the mattress.

"You're not the first man I've watched be overtaken by fear. Out in the deserts, even the most battle-weathered men lost their senses. Often, this small comfort was all we had to offer each other." He returns to his own bed. 

"Goodnight, Dismas."

"Goodnight, Reynauld."

I lie on my back, the sweat-stained blanket at my chest. No light comes in through the curtained window, but I sense that the greyed light of dawn isn't far away. The stillness is what gives it away. Absolute quiet. Not even the stray mongrels that roam the hamlet dare bark. I close my eyes. Exhaustion weighs heavy on my limbs. Reynauld begins snoring. It sounds a bit like a chair being dragged back and forth in another room. In and out... In and out... 

The darkness returns. It always does. This time, I am forever running towards a light, so distant as to show up as hardly more than a pinprick in the void, but there all the same. From it, I smell lye soap and feel the gentle brush of his thumb against mine. If only I could reach it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Whew, this was way out of my comfort zone! I usually don't write in first person, let alone in a stream-of-consciousness sort of style. Any kind of feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
